Tender is a Kiss
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: Christine Daaé is a chorus girl at the Palais Garnier. Erik Delacroix is a composer and conductor of the Garnier orchestra. When he hears her singing to herself he is spellbound, and decides to give her lessons, if she will accept. She agrees, and slowly lessons turn to friendship turn to love.
1. Meeting

**A/N:** **This AU started out as a collection of random ficlets and headcanons on Tumblr. Here they are, with new material written to fill in the gaps. There will be A Number of chapters, and when updates will occur I have not yet decided. Much of it still needs to be written, but consider this a taster. There is Much to come.**

 **Also, a brief note. The aspects of Erik's history that led to his becoming a composer and a conductor instead of the Opera Ghost will be revealed as the story progresses, and the Farhad referenced in this chapter is in fact the Persian.**

* * *

She has heard of him. Of course she has heard of him. Monsieur Erik Delacroix, composer and conductor of the Palais Garnier orchestra. How could she _not_ have heard of him? His name is on the lips of every Conservatoire student, every opera-attendee. _Delacroix's newest work. Delacroix conducted. Delacroix is the finest_.

Christine is not certain what she expected the first time she laid eyes on him, mere days after arriving at the Garnier. She knew about the mask, of course. Everyone knows about the mask. _Wounded in the war_ , they say, _taken prisoner by the Germans but escaped_. Perhaps she expected him not to be so tall. He is terribly tall, seems to tower over every member of his orchestra. Tall, and thin. Even in his dress clothes, prepared for a night's performance, he looks too thin. Elegant, certainly, graceful in fact. But too thin.

Her eyes return to him, over and over again, in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. There is something about him, something in the way he stands, something in the way his black-gloved fingers curl around his baton. Something about how his pocket watch shines golden in the gaslight. Elegant, and tall, and proud, and her heart catches but it is only nerves, surely. Only nerves.

* * *

Erik does not make it a habit to pay attention to chorus girls. Normally, they only draw his eye when it is his own piece they are performing and he wishes to correct them. But there is something about this new girl that he cannot put his finger on. Something in the way she frowns, and it is damn troubling.

He learns her name by accident, when another chorus girl, Mademoiselle Ledoux, refers to her as Christine. Christine. He turns it over in his mind, as if the cadence of it can tell him what it is about her that keeps distracting him. But it is a name, simply a name like any other.

For _obvious_ reasons, he has never permitted himself to consider women before, and certainly not chorus girls. But she would be, he thinks, considered pretty by those knowledgeable about such things.

(They were performing Gounod's _Faust,_ the closing night, and he described the girl to Farhad before the show, and afterwards Farhad told him that the girl is certainly pretty but not an exceptional beauty, and it was the _least_ helpful thing that Farhad could have said because it troubled Erik all night and he still could not conclude what it is about her that makes him wonder.)

He pushes the girl out of his mind, and resolves to forget her. But that same cursed memory that ensures he remembers too many things in intricate detail means she is always there, lingering in the back of his mind, and when he is in the theatre late one evening, rehearsals over and orchestra gone home, and hears soft singing from the stage, something in him just _knows._

The language catches him off guard. It is not one he is familiar with, not Italian, not German, not French, not Russian, not even Persian. It is sweetly lilting, and his breath shudders with the aching sadness of it, the words conjuring images of snow, of faraway lands and distant beauty.

The song finishes, and Erik's eyes flicker back open without him realising he closed them. The girl glances from side to side, and scurries off the stage before he has time to stop her. And he is left standing, the world tilting into place.

* * *

He hears her singing several more times, after that. Picks her voice out from amongst those of the other chorus girls. Once he is aware of it, knows it, the thread of it is easy to find, and he distantly listens to her as he drills his orchestra. She has a beautiful voice. He does not think it is an exaggeration to say he has never heard the like of it. Such sweetness. It far surpasses Carlotta, and Carlotta is good, he will admit, and she does his pieces justice otherwise she would not be here, but this girl, this Christine. There is a haunting quality in her voice that, with a little work on her technique, might be very wonderful indeed.

(Her voice follows him home each night, wends through his brain in the half-shadows between waking and sleeping, and when he succumbs it is there in his dreams, soft and sad and just out of his reach.)

* * *

It has become Christine's evening tradition, after rehearsals, to wait until the theatre is quiet and take to the stage. She sings the songs that it feels right to sing, be they arias or the old songs her father taught her, so long ago. And if she closes her eyes, if she closes her eyes she can pretend she is singing for all of Paris.

And so, this evening, the same. She bids farewell to the other girls, secrets herself in the shadows and watches them leave. The director, the managers, the individual members of the orchestra, the ballet corps, Monsieur Delacroix one of the very last. Everyone in dribs and drabs until the theatre is empty. And then, steeling herself against the inevitable rush of nerves because even though the theatre is empty it is still a theatre, she steps out onto the stage and positions herself in the middle.

From this angle, the vastness of the auditorium never ceases to take her breath away.

She draws a shuddering breath, and nods, closing her eyes against the sight of the empty seats. What to sing? She does not usually have to decide, but her mind is blank. Perhaps this is a bad idea. Perhaps she should go home and instead find something to sing tomorrow.

Soft singing from behind her breaks into her thoughts. "Der du von dem Himmel bist…" Schubert. 'Wandrers Nachtlied'. She has never heard that voice before. If she had she would remember it, and tears spring to her eyes with the aching sadness contained in those words, that voice, that beautiful voice tugging at her heart.

The song finishes while she stands there, spellbound and awe-struck, and almost immediately another one takes its place. This one she does not recognise, but there is that same haunting quality in it that makes her shiver. The singing flows over her, the voice so sweet and beautiful, and behind her eyes she sees desert lands and the setting sun casting long shadows of a horse and rider.

She does not realise that the song has finished until a soft voice calls her name. "Mademoiselle Daaé."

Her eyes open, and she blinks a moment as the world comes back into the view, the stage and the seating and a tall man in black. The singer. Surely it must be the singer.

Her head swims when she recognises Monsieur Delacroix, her thoughts a litany of _Oh God it's over. This is it. You're finished. You'll never be back again. You've ruined everything. Why did you have to be so careless?_ And her heart pounds hard in her chest, her throat dry as she whispers, "Monsieur Delacroix."

The black mask leaves his face impassive, but his hazel eyes are gentle as he asks, "Mademoiselle, would you consent to let me help you with your singing technique?"

Her singing technique? But…she didn't sing. _He_ sang, apparently. How could he have heard her sing? He never sits in on the chorus rehearsals!

"I—" Words fail her as she tries to frame her thoughts, but he nods slowly.

"I heard you. Yesterday evening, and the evening before, and the evening before. And many evenings now, all in a row. I think you have…wonderful potential, and, if you are willing, I would very much like to help you reach it."

Erik Delacroix is asking her for her permission to give her singing lessons? Has the world turned upside down?

She feels like she should have questions, feels like she should be suspicious, but her mind is too blank to think and all she can say is,

"Yes."

* * *

 **A/N: Title from Lisa Hannigan's song 'Tender'**


	2. Panic

**A/N: You would not believe how sorry I am that it has taken me so long to update this. I caught up working on Wraiths of Wandering (which you should all totally read for an exciting, tense, next-gen WWI fic starring all your faves in one way or another) and thinking about various other projects, and just did not have the inclination to work on this. But I hope to make progress on this in the coming weeks!**

* * *

They arrange to meet the next evening, after rehearsals. Monsieur Delacroix ensures Christine that he has arranged a disused dressing room for their lessons, and though there is a flutter of apprehension in her heart at the thought of being alone with him, Christine nods that she understands. She is, after all, alone with him _now_ and he is not attempting to take advantage of her. And his eyes are kind behind the mask.

"And will you sing again?" she asks, before taking her leave, and he makes a vague hand gesture as if to say _we'll see._

"Perhaps." The simple word carries a weight of possibility that stirs in Christine's stomach, and she swallows. Her head is too full of thoughts to think anything coherently, still whispering that is Monsieur Delacroix, of _all people_ it is _Monsieur Delacroix_ who sang to her, _Monsieur Delacroix_ who wishes to give her lessons. The very idea of it is beyond belief! He who normally shies away from everything except his beloved orchestra, and he wants to give her, her!, Christine Daaé!, lessons! Wants to sharpen her technique and help her to improve! It is little wonder that she is in a daze the whole way home, that she feels as if she is floating on air.

It is Mamma who draws her back, who reminds her that she is no longer at the opera.

"What has you smiling like that, älskling?" There is a slight smile in her voice even as she asks, and Christine blinks, trying to frame her thoughts. What can she say? _The renowned composer Monsieur Delacroix wishes to give me singing lessons._ Or maybe, _the elusive conductor Monsieur Delacroix wishes to give me singing lessons._ Oh, but Mamma may not even know who Monsieur Delacroix _is_ , and if she does (of course she does, she must by now!) she might not realise why this is so exciting, why this means so much.

And besides, what if—what if Monsieur Delacroix realises that there is nothing more to be done with her voice? What if this is only as good as she'll ever be? Sudden terror squeezes at Christine's heart. What if he realises she is only a sham? Only possessed of minor inconsequential talent? That she has only gotten so far by sheer luck and good fortune and really she is not very good at all? He will change his mind. He will decide not to teach her he—he will not sing for her! And he must sing he must!

She blinks away the visions of disaster bearing down on her and swallows, realising that Mamma is still watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"I—it is nothing, Mamma. Nothing. Only a little silly thing, that is all." And she tries to smile for her, but all of the fluttering excitement has died from her.

"Well," Mamma smiles, and her eyes are kind. "It is good to see you smile again, dear. It has been too long."

Christine nods, and after supper quietly excuses herself to her room. And,alone with her thoughts and her worries, she passes a restless night.

* * *

Erik is shocked at the words that left his mouth. He never intended to ask her if he could teach her. He is not certain what it was he intended _at all_ when he revealed himself to her. He only started singing in the hope it would encourage her to! And now he's only gone and asked her consent to help her, and worse, she accepted!

What mess has he gotten himself into?

He doesn't even know if that dressing room is still free. For all he knows the place is getting used as storage now. It could be full to the brim with costumes! And then what? Where can he teach her then?

 _What_ will he teach her? What _can_ he teach her?

He groans and sinks to the stage, curling his arms tight around himself. Bile burns his throat but he swallows it down. He only meant to sing for her, only meant for her to sing for him. He never wanted to get close to her. That has always been his rule. _Do not get close_. Getting close means that soon enough someone will want to look under his mask. Mademoiselle Daaé may even want to look under his mask, and then she'll scream and run and that will be everything over with. Everything he's worked for, gone in an instant. All thanks to one moment of impulse.

How could he be so _stupid_?

* * *

He is not certain, afterwards, how it is that he returns to the Rue de Rivoli. It is as if his feet just carry him there, and before he knows it he is looking into Farhad's face, and Farhad is frowning at him.

"Darius, the cognac I think. Forget the tea." Farhad's voice is soft, his fingers pressing deep into Erik's wrist. The cool air on his face tells Erik that he is not wearing his mask. When did he take it off? Certainly not in front of Mademoiselle Daaé. _Obviously_ it was not on the walk home because is not lying in a jail cell (a cold shiver runs down his spine at the very thought) after frightening the good people of Paris. He blinks, trying to think, and Farhad's fingers loosen around his wrist.

It is only then that Erik realises he is lying on the divan.

"Why—" Hardly can he get the words out to ask why he is lying down, when Farhad is shushing him, patting the back of his hand lightly.

"You were in quite a daze, my friend. I was worried you would faint and do yourself an injury. A good thing Darius was just going out and found you at the door or who knows what might have happened!"

The clink of a glass draws Erik's attention, and he turns his head to find Darius pouring cognac from the decanter. It is on the tip of his tongue to protest the brandy, but as soon as he opens his mouth Farhad is shushing him again.

"I know, Erik. You're worried it will damage your voice. But you've clearly had an ordeal of some sort and need to steady yourself."

An ordeal? He's had ordeals before. He has a whole _history_ of ordeals _,_ but what happened with Mademoiselle Daaé was certainly not one and Farhad is absolutely mistaken in that. He, Erik, may have been a fool and may have gotten himself into a terrible tangle with the girl that he now needs to extricate himself from, but it is a far cry from an ordeal. "It was not an ordeal, Farhad." He murmurs the words even as Darius presses a glass of cognac into his hand. Perhaps if he simply holds it long enough Farhad will not insist he drink it.

Farhad frowns at his words. "Not an ordeal? Then what, do tell, happened to make you arrive home late looking as if you had taken leave of your senses?"

"I—There was—" Dammit but there is nothing for it but to tell the truth. Farhad will keep pressing and pressing otherwise until the whole story is out, and damn him but he is so very good at knowing when Erik is lying. He has too many years of practice in his favour.

Erik takes a sip of the cognac to steady himself, and sighs. "It was the girl, the one I mentioned to you before, Mademoiselle Daaé…" and like that the whole sorry tale comes spilling out. How he has spent weeks secretly watching her singing on the stage to an empty theatre, how she stood there this evening and seemed indecisive until he sang for her, how he offered to help her and she accepted and now he does not know what to do about it. "How can I teach her, Farhad? How? Sooner or later she'll want to know—want to know all about this," he gestures roughly at his face with the hand not holding the now-empty cognac glass. "And the moment she sees what it's like, then that's it. Finished. She'll never want another lesson, and once the company finds out what it's really like, they'll run me out! It will be better for all of us if I just tell her tomorrow that I cannot give her lessons after all. Save us all of the grief."

Farhad nods wisely as Erik finishes, and leans back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. "And what do you think that will do to the girl? I guarantee you she'll be crushed. Think of your positions! She's a soprano, freshly graduated from the Conservatoire only a few months and in the chorus. And you are a composer, and a conductor, and a man who holds a great deal of way in the theatrical community. And if you changed your mind—such a thing will destroy her, Erik! She will convince herself that she is not good enough, that she is inferior. She will see only that the fault is her own. It will destroy her confidence and before you know it she will have quit the stage and become a fish-monger's wife. No, no, no, Erik. To go back on your word now would be a fatal mistake."

Erik turns Farhad's words over in his mind, and even with his misty thoughts sluggish from his own shock at himself and the cognac, finds that they make sense. "So what do you propose I do?"

And Farhad's lips twitch into a faint smile. "Why, you give her the lessons. It is the only fair thing you can do. Far better than getting her hopes up only to shatter them." He swallows and leans in, closer to Erik, his voice soft. "Besides, she does not strike me as the kind to run."

* * *

 **A/N: Next up: a look at their first lesson, and more.**

 **Please do leave a review and let me know what you think!**


	3. Lesson

For a long time that morning, Christine lies in bed trying to settle the racing of her heart. There is nothing that she can think of to ease the twisting anxiety in her stomach. If she thinks of Papa, she gets a chill and a stab of pain. If she thinks of music, her thoughts turn to Monsieur Delacroix without a moment's hesitation and the churning in her stomach starts again, those sneering voices in her ears whispering to her that he will see her as the fraud she is, will order her removed from the company when he sees that this is all she is.

( _Can_ he order someone removed from the company? She is not certain, but probably. He seems to have so much control over everything as it is.)

She draws a deep breath, and holds it for five seconds as she counts. Mamma always says it is best to hold a deep breath in order to calm one's nerves, but Christine is not trying to calm her nerves because she has no nerves. She is simply anxious.

The misty morning light catches the blue rosary beads, sitting on the locker beside her bed. They shine dully, reminding her that they are there, and she sighs, stretches one hand out and with a finger pulls them toward her until she can cup them in her palm. Mamma always says that when trying to calm oneself, it is best to turn to prayer. And the very thought of trying to eat breakfast makes bile rise burning in her throat. She has time for the Rosary. One Rosary, and then she will be ready.

She twines the beads between her fingers, and seeks out the first one.

 _In the name of the father, and of the son…_

* * *

He takes great care in dressing himself. Normally, he wears a simple black mask for the rehearsals. It is not at all flamboyant, but it is sufficient. This morning, however, he chooses the black one with the delicate gold threads webbing through it. His burgundy waistcoat has matching gold threads, and he flatters himself that they bring out his one attractive feature of his eyes. He wears his best dress suit, and the black gloves that make his hands look particularly elegant.

Why he goes to such trouble he cannot say. He tells himself it is because he wishes to make a good impression on her, as if a good impression would ever be enough to keep her from wishing to see his face. But something tells him the true reason is more than that, and the knowledge of it flickers deep inside of him even as he tries to deny it. He simply wishes to put her at ease, that is all. Nothing more. And if putting her at ease means looking the best that he can, then so be it.

Farhad arches an eyebrow knowingly to see him when at last he emerges from his room. (Normally he would have been out much sooner, but this morning his tea has cooled on the table.)

"Very handsome, Erik," he says, lips twitching as if he is fighting a smile, but with the anxiety twisting deep in Erik's stomach he can only glower.

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Afterwards, he is certain that he lets several minor errors slide over the course of the rehearsal. (All of the major errors he corrects, and if there is a sharper edge to his voice than normal, nobody in his orchestra comments on it.) Normally he would pick out each mistake, each misplaced note, and correct it on the spot, but the anxiety in his stomach and the voices in his head whispering that he has this one chance with Mademoiselle Daaé before everything falls apart, are such that he cannot truly concentrate on the music that is being played.

He dismisses the musicians, marginally earlier than usual, and slips off into one of the hidden corridors he installed years ago. As soon as he is safely tucked away from sight, he eases off his mask and wipes the sweat from his face, all too aware of the hard beating of his heart. It would be so easy to leave Daaé a note. He has already checked the availability of the dressing room and it is not, as he feared, a storage closet. He could write her a note, tell her that due to unforeseeable circumstances he will not be able to teach her, leave the note in the dressing room and slip a second note, claiming serious illness, in to the manager's office. Slip out of the theatre, and onto the next train, and hide in the country for a time. Wire Farhad to join him, tell him that it is truly unfeasible that he take the girl on as a student. Fake his death, perhaps—

But no. At the very thought of Farhad, the man's words come back to him. How he would be condemning the Daaé girl if he were to back out now. How it is absolutely necessary that he continue, and with a painful throb of his heart, he knows that he must. There is no going back now, only forwards. And he is the only reason he is in this mess to begin with. There is only himself to blame.

* * *

The rehearsal seems to drag on longer than usual. Though Christine is only in the chorus, and her voice is often drowned out by the combined efforts of the other girls, Monsieur Reyer both notices and corrects her when she fumbles several notes, her voice trembling at the thought of what Monsieur Delacroix will say when faced with her. Will he castigate her? Reprimand her? Order her out of the theatre? She has had all night and day to try to allay those fears but still they wend their way through her brain, disturbing every effort at singing properly, and if she cannot keep her anxiety under control now, how will she ever manage when faced with the man himself Delacroix? She'll stutter and squeak, she knows it!

She should have told Mamma about the lesson. Mamma would know what to say to settle her.

Mamma would get her hopes up that this means there is a starring role coming and when that doesn't happen, when Delacroix sees through her, Mamma would be crushed! No. It is best that she not know. It can be Christine's little disappointing secret.

When, at last, she escapes from rehearsal, it is only two minutes until she is supposed to meet with Delacroix in the abandoned dressing room! Two minutes? It will take her five minutes at least to get there! And that is only if she does not get lost! She's going to be late. Oh _God_ she's going to be late.

It is that thought, that fear of being late, that spurs her on, and she races down the hall even as the other girls are saying their goodbyes. All thoughts, all anxieties, all worries are pushed out of her mind with the burning need to _not be late_. And she runs, her feet flying beneath her, carrying her on down one corridor and then the next, the sound of her running like thunder, and around a corner, her lungs gasping for breath but she cannot stop, cannot, must keep going, and down another corridor, around the corner, and there is the door.

It opens the moment she lays her hand to it, and she falls in through it. Her knees are too weak, legs trembling too much, to catch herself and as the floor comes up to meet her, a pair of strong hands wrap around her arms, but the momentum is too much, and she is falling too hard, and she barely has time to register the presence of hands before she is crashing down into a tangle of limbs.

The world whites out, and all she can hear is ragged gasping, the pounding of a heart beneath her ear. Whose heart? Her heart, surely, but how can her own heart be beneath her ear? It must be—must be someone else—

The realisation of who, exactly, is lying beneath her comes to her at the same moment her vision clears, and she finds a pair of wide golden eyes staring at her from behind a black mask.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks as she rolls off Monsieur Delacroix, but he does not speak, simply continues staring at her even as she scrambles to her feet.

"I—" he gasps, "I—" and he blinks slowly, swallowing.

Christine smooths the creases from her dress, nausea flickering in her stomach. Did she hurt him? Did he hit his head as he fell? Oh _God_ this is really it. She knew something would happen. She _knew_ it. He's going to have her thrown out and she'll have to go home to Mamma and tell her that she half-killed the conductor by falling down with him and— and—

Such is her state of panic, she does not see Monsieur Delacroix shake his head, and roll over, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He dusts off his dress suit, and lays one hand over his mask to check it, and the next she knows of him his hands are back on her arms, and he is looking at her, his voice soft with concern as he asks, "Are you all right?"

All right? Is she all right? Of course she's all right he broke her fall!

She does not say that, of course. Instead she asks, "Are you?"

His eyes are all of his face she can see, those burning golden eyes that she has heard so much about, and up this close she realises that they are not true gold but actually gold-hazel, and is it her imagination or does she imagination that there is a softness to them as he nods?

"Yes." His voice is still soft, and distantly she wonders if this is some sort of a trick, some way of fooling her into thinking all is well before he orders her out, but instead he pats her gently on the arm, and leans back, releasing her from his grip, and all she can do is gape at him, fumbling to think what to say as he asks, "Are you certain you are all right?"

And she nods, swallows to try and strengthen her voice before she says, any tremor held carefully at bay, "Yes. I am."

He nods, and clears his throat, smoothing his hands back over his dress suit. "Good. That—That's good. Well—I—if you are well, then perhaps we should start the lesson."

And with that simple statement, with that simplestatement Christine knows she is safe.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and please do leave me a review letting me know what you think!**

 **Up next: The aftermath of the lesson**


	4. Aftermath

At the end of the lesson, when she has evidently called him by Monsieur Delacroix one too many times, he insists she address him as Erik. _Erik_. The name feels strange on her tongue, unwieldy, as if it is too personal, too intimate, to call him such. It is too unbalanced, the footing too uneven, if she is to call him Erik while he still knows her as Mademoiselle Daaé. No. No, no. It will not do, not at all.

And so, catching herself half by surprise, she says, "Please, call me Christine."

"Chris—tine." He breaks the name as if he is testing it, rolls the _r_ and carries the first _i_ , the _s_ soft. "Christine." There is something melodic simply in the way he says her name, and it tugs at her heart to hear it, as if he is singing the syllables of it.

She smiles at him, and stretches out her hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Erik."

The mask ensures that his face is unreadable, but for a glimmer of a moment she thinks she sees a hint of a smile around his eyes, before he takes her hand with trembling gloved fingers. "The pleasure is all mine, Christine."

* * *

She wanders home in a daze, her feet carrying her without any input from her mind. Her thoughts are a whirl, picking over every moment of her lesson, from the way Monsieur Delacroix (she cannot possibly think of him as Erik, it would be too informal, too disrespectful) gently guided her through the scales, his hands seeming to almost glide through the air, to the way he insisted she call him Erik, to the hesitancy as he shook her hand. But though she picks through every moment – the memory of his soft voice seeming to have almost taken up residence beneath her heart, warming her, leaving her knees feeling faintly weak – her thoughts keep straying back, back to the moment she opened the door and then they ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor.

Thank God he was not hurt.

Thank God he was not angry.

Her stomach churns still just thinking about it, and her fingers fumble as she pulls out the key for the apartment door (how did she get back here already?) It scrapes in the lock, and the door opens easily.

The apartment is quiet, silent, and it takes her a moment to remember that Mamma is out, visiting Madame LeDoux, whose daughter is expecting any day now. Well, at least she will not have to face her when she is in such mental disarray. Mamma would only ask her too many questions, and then the whole sorry tale would come spilling out, and if Mamma were to hear about it she would make such a fuss.

Christine drops heavily into a chair in the kitchen, and sighs. She will simply have to try to forget, forget about the way she fell on top of Delacroix, forget about what could have happened. It is the only way she will be able to carry on, the only way she will be able to face him, tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. To forget about the pounding of her heart, forget about the anxiety twisting in her stomach, forget about it all.

She smooths her hands over her dress, folds them, and nods. Forget about it. Just forget about it.

But forgetting is easier said than done. And when she closes her eyes, her heart flutters, and she can feel his fingers curled around her arms again.

* * *

It is the second evening in a row that he starts coming back to himself on the doorstop, the second evening in a row that he finds himself looking into Farhad's concerned face. How he got home he cannot recall, feels only as if he has floated, drifted here on the breeze, borne by something in her soft faint smile.

It is better even than vin mariani.

Oh, she is so much better than anything else. Christine. Christine Daaé. And to think, that he touched her! He touched her, steadied her, and felt his heart falter, a palpitation that fluttered ("That cannot be good," and Farhad's voice is matter-of-fact) and left him breathless, and for long moments that he dared not count, dared to not so much as exhale in case she would shatter and be revealed as an illusion, an hallucination, she lay on top of him with her head on his chest.

He thought he had died then and there.

Heaven could not be half as pleasant as lying beneath her, her heart pounding against his.

He does not think she noticed how flustered he was, too caught up in her own flightiness, and went even easier on her in the lesson than he had intended to, seeking out the extent of her range.

(It is good, excellent in fact, but he can improve it.)

But her name. Her name. Has any word in any language ever felt so beautiful on his tongue?

"Christine."

"Excuse me?" And Farhad is frowning at him again, his lips tight. Did Farhad say something before? Maybe, but it so difficult to think when every thought is full of her soft golden hair, of her wide blue eyes. So very blue. He doubts if he has ever seen eyes so blue before.

"She asked me to—to call her Christine." _She will permit me to address her by her given name._ Has anyone ever been so blessed before?

Farhad's grins, his eyes knowing, and he presses a glass into Erik's hand. "In that case, I take it the lesson went well. A toast is in order!" And he raises his glass. "To Christine!"

And Erik is grinning, grinning like, like some sort of a madman! "To Christine!" And they clink their glasses, and in the echo of it he hears the rolling of her name.

Christine.

Christine.

 _Christine_.

* * *

 **A/N: First of all, an apology for how long it's taken me to post this chapter. I've been very caught up in finishing Wraiths of Wandering, and I have all of the remaining chapters of that drafted, so progress! The remaining chapters of this are still very much a work in progress, and I likely won't update it again until 26 December. But I'm hoping to go at it full force then!**

 **On a historical note, vin mariani was a wine made from Bordeaux and coca leaves, coca leaves being the ones that cocaine is made from. Hopsjollyhigh recently informed me of the wine's existence and popularity in the late 19th Century, and it was quite popular amongst the upper classes.**

 **Up next: Further lessons**


	5. Mamihlapinatapei

**A/N: I've hated coming to this decision, but if you follow my Tumblr you'll know what I'm going to say. Last week I decided to discontinue this fic. I've lost interest in it, and writing it was damned difficult to begin with, it being such a departure from my usual sort of thing. So basically I'm abandoning it and not writing any more new content.**

 **But I also faced a dilemma over what to do with all of the ficlets that I've already written in this verse. I have 14 ficlets, most of which were written in response to prompts on Tumblr, so I've decided to post them here as chapters, one a day until my laptop folder is empty. With breaks on Saturdays for _Running Through the Rain_ , or anything special that I post in lieu of updates to that.**

 **I will give brief summaries of what happens between each ficlet, so none of you will get lost. I will still love and appreciate reviews on this, but I'm not continuing it as an active story, and anything that's described in the summaries will not be written.**

 **So. To those of you who do not follow me on Tumblr (and to those of you who do, and missed these ficlets when I posted them there or have forgotten about them) I hope you enjoy the upcoming little collection. And I hope you will please support _Running Through the Rain_ , and any of my future fics.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

* * *

 _In the time between chapter 4 and this ficlet, Erik and Christine have become close friends through their lessons. Christine has performed the lead in a couple of operas, and they have fallen in love with each other, though neither of them quite realises this and certainly won't admit it to anyone. They love discussing books and music, and regularly go on walks in the Luxembourg._

 _Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move._

* * *

His hand brushes against hers, very softly, a thrill running through her. It is a struggle not to take that hand, to turn and look at him. (A struggle not to kiss him, to lift his mask and press her lips gently to his. She has often wondered what it might be like to kiss him. For all that his lips are thin they do look so soft, and she can feel her own crying out to meet them.) She swallows, her lips still tingling, and maintains her focus straight ahead.

He is her teacher, and her friend, and that is all they are, all she knows they _can_ be, but, oh, how she longs to take him in her arms, and hold him. Just hold him.

A shudder runs though him, too, as their hands brush, and it occurs to him that it would be very easy to turn his hand, and grasp hers, and twine their fingers. Those fingers…he has spent many hours admiring them, in lessons, in rehearsals, in their walks, here in the Luxembourg and as he escorts her home. They are very slender, very delicate, very graceful, as if they might piece together the broken shards of a mirror without cutting themselves.

(His throat is dry at the very thought.)

He cannot keep himself from looking at her as they walk, from breathing her in. She is lovely every day, all the time, without realising it – those bright blue eyes and that blonde hair, so light as to almost be white. Her soft features, and small nose, and gentle lips that make his heart ache. If he were a stronger man, a braver man, he might ask permission to kiss her, to press his lips to hers. But he is not a brave man, only a coward, too afraid to risk what they have for the longing burning inside of him.

"Erik?" Her voice is light, a question, and it snaps him back in an instant to the park, to her eyes gazing into his, and his heart thuds painfully, realising he has been staring at her.

"Yes, Christine?"

Her brow furrows, and his fingers ache to smooth the expression away. Her face should never be marred in such a way!

"What is it you're looking at?"

 _You. The wonder of you, and these feelings that I can't name._ "Oh, nothing in particular. Just thinking." It is not exactly a lie. He does not think he could ever lie to her.

Her lips twitch, and the gentleness in her eyes thrills him to the core, makes his heart ache. "About what?"

 _How very beautiful you are_. But he cannot say that, not without overstepping the bounds between them, and he fumbles a moment, only one brief moment before righting himself. "The new opera. I think we should have them design a blue dress for you."


	6. Cataglottism

_Between last night's ficlet and this one, they each realise they love each other. Christine asks to see Erik's face. Two days later - after a great deal of angsting to Farhad - Erik agrees. She is not horrified, merely upset at what the world has done to him, and kisses him on the cheek. He breaks down crying. It becomes a regular thing for him to take his mask off in the secrecy of her dressing room, and she does sometimes kiss him again. Then he asks if he may kiss her properly._

 _Cataglottism - kissing with tongue._

* * *

The moment she slips her tongue between his lips he can feel his heart thud to a stop. She tastes of lemon, of tea, and her tongue is soft as it traces the inside of his lip. He gasps into her mouth, a shiver running down his spine, thrilling through to his navel, and he shifts closer, tightens his arm around her waist.

What is he supposed to do? She's probing the inside of his mouth with her tongue, and it is not _unpleasant_ , but it _is_ profoundly strange, and surely there is something that he is supposed to do other than hold her and let her. Is this going too far? Is he supposed to push her away? No! He cannot, that would be rude, undoubtedly, and she is so gentle, her tongue stroking smoothly against the inside of his, and tingling heat blooms in his gut and it is all that he can do not to rock his hips against hers because that _would_ be rude, and _inappropriate_ and isn't kissing a woman supposed to make one's thoughts go blank? Not rush all the harder?

Perhaps, perhaps he ought to slip his tongue into her mouth, too? Perhaps that is what he is supposed to do. It sounds a little awkward, but he braces himself, tightens his grip on her, and ever so gently opens his mouth a little wider, angles his head, and traces her lip with his tongue. It is _her_ turn to shiver now, _her_ turn to whimper, and the fact of that is oddly satisfying, so he eases his tongue carefully past her own, and into her mouth.

She gasps, presses herself closer to him so that he can feel the heat radiating through her clothes and her breasts are so soft pressed to him—No! He must not think of that, must not, must focus on her lips and her tongue, and tracing the inside of her lip the way she traced his.

And it is _wonderful_ , it is _perfect_. Is this the sort of kiss the poets write of, and not the gently sweet one of simply pressing their lips together? If it is it's no wonder they write of it so, even though he doubts if they've ever kissed a woman as beautiful as his Christine. And, oh, but she is wonderful, so wonderful, and how did she ever choose him, agree to kiss him? It is more than he deserves, far more, and his breath catches in his throat and his eyes sting with tears, and he is powerless to stop them as they slip down his cheeks—

Her tongue stills in his mouth, and her arms around him loosen and pull back. He closes his own mouth, still able to taste her tea, and opens his eyes, blinking away the tears that blur his vision. She is looking up at him, her brow furrowed, concern shining in her eyes.

"Is something wrong, Erik? Did I—"

He shakes his head, and cuts her off. Wrong? How could anything be wrong when that may be the most _right_ thing that's happened to him in his life? How could she think it wrong?

"No, my dear," he whispers, his voice hoarse with tears. "That was…that was wonderful. Forgive your Erik. He is…he is not used to such things."

Her eyes soften, tears shining in them now, and with one trembling finger he brushes them away. "Oh, Erik." She raises herself, and presses her lips to his cheek, and her arms tighten back around him.

"If…if you wish," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her forehead, "if you do not object, I would like to try that again."

She chuckles against him, and smiles. "I would be delighted."

His lips twitch into a smile as he presses them to hers again, and this time when her tongue slips between them, he is ready.


	7. Confession

_A number of weeks pass during which they grow closer to each other, and finally, Christine has a confession to make._

* * *

His heart stutters the moment the words leave her lips, before they ever have time to truly reach his ears. _I love you_. She said that. She did she said that. She really said it.

He swallows the breath that catches in his throat, knees buckling as he sinks back onto the divan. Through the tears prickling his eyes he sees her fall to her knees next to him, feels her soft little hand wrap around his own.

 _I love you. I love you_.

"Erik," her voice is low, "Erik, I'm sorry I thought—I didn't mean—"

It's a struggle to command his hand to move when he feels so weak, but slowly he reaches out and presses one finger to her lips, silencing her, her words still echoing faintly in his ears.

 _I love you. I love you._

He never thought—never _dreamt_ that someone could ever say that to him, but for it to come from her, from _her_ lips, from off _her_ tongue—his heart stutters and he turns his hand in his lap to squeeze hers back.

"Did you—" the words catch in his throat and he tries again, tears sparkling now in her eyes too, her lovely dear eyes that he has looked into so many times, hoping, praying. "Do you mean that?"

And she nods. She nods and he feels suddenly so weak, darkness buzzing at the edges of his vision. Before he knows it he's lying full-length on the divan, his legs propped up and cravat loosened and Christine, dear Christine who whispered such a beautiful thing, hovering at his head, his right hand clasped between both of hers.

"How do you feel?" she murmurs, her blue eyes searching his so that they are all he can see, and he feels limp, and lightheaded, but none of that matters because she said _I love you._

"Christine," he breathes, curling his fingers around hers, "Christine, I—" he swallows, and his lips twitch into a smile. "I love you too."


	8. Anxiety

_Erik and Christine have officially been a couple for many months, and now he's trying to work up the nerve for the next step_.

* * *

How to ask her. That's the dilemma. Not how he feels for her or how she feels for him or what anyone thinks of them. What does what people think about them matter? Farhad approves. Madame Valerius (who insists he call her Mamma, but it's profoundly strange to call someone only slightly older than he is Mamma so for now he sticks to Madame) approves. She approves perhaps the most of anyone, always greets him with a smile and a nod even though she knows he wishes to take Christine for his own.

He could never take Christine away from her though. Neither of them could abide that, and neither could he if he is being honest.

Farhad and Madame both approve, and nobody else matters. Except for Christine's father, of course, the late Monsieur Daaé to whom he owes so much, and he is certain that he approves also. He can feel it.

So that only leaves the lady herself. But how to ask her? He can hardly swan in to her dressing room before a performance and ask. And if he got down on one knee he is not certain that he would be able to get up again without help, and it is undignified to ask the woman of his affections to help him up when he is in the process of trying to propose to her. To take her out to dinner and present her with a bundle of roses and a ring just doesn't feel right. And nor does it feel right to make a production out of it, to ask for her hand in front of a theatre full of people. That would be mortifying for them both.

And what to say. _Marry me, Christine?_

 _Christine, would you consent to be my wife?_

 _Christine, I wish to marry you. What do you think?_

Read to her, perhaps, from Shelley. Love's Philosophy, and they fit together like two parts of a whole.

Compose something for her, with the question at the end and somehow trick her into asking him.

In another world he might do just that, but not in this world. And in this world the words all weigh wrong on his tongue, catch in his throat, and his heart aches to ask her, but how? How?


	9. Wedding

_Eventually, while visiting Christine in her dressing room one night after a performance, Erik works up the nerve to propose. Christine accepts, and they have only a short engagement before the big day._

* * *

How many times has she dreamt of this? Nights, mornings, rehearsals, lessons, walks. Too many times to count, to ever begin to guess at. She has often wondered how she would feel when the moment came, and now the moment has come and for all the times she has wondered at it _this_ feels like a dream. Is she certain she is awake? Is she certain this is real? For all she knows she might have collapsed on the stage, or be hallucinating.

Erik does not turn around, maintains that piece of tradition even if nothing else about them is traditional. But Farhad looks. Farhad looks back at her, and gives her a barely perceptible nod, and Mamma is smiling at her even with her handkerchief clutched in her hand, and Sorelli in front of her has already reached the altar, and this is real, it is.

Papa would be proud. He told her to be happy, to find someone she could love, and she did, though sometimes she thinks it's more that Erik found her. Erik found her, heard her by chance, and her heart is so full with all she feels she could never speak it to him, never hope to.

She is trembling, fine tremors running over her skin but it is not from cold. Not at all from cold.

Papa would like Erik. For all of Erik's oddities she has no doubt of that. A musician, an artist so in tune with melody that she thinks it must flow in his blood. Papa would be so happy that it is Erik, would welcome him without a single doubt so long as he makes her happy. And he does. Oh, he does.

Only a few more steps and she will be beside her fiancé. Fiancé. Soon her husband. She will stand there, and the priest will say his words, and they will take their vows, and Erik will be crying and trying to fight it as he slips the ring onto her finger, and then he will kiss her. And she will hug him, just hold him for a long time. And they will walk away, arm in arm, husband and wife, and she will cease to be Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, will instead be Madame Christine Delacroix.

Did her mother have these trembling, twisting nerves when she married Papa?

Did Mamma have them when she married the Professor?

She has no doubt that marrying Erik is the right thing to do. She wants to marry him with every fibre of her being, wants to pledge herself to him and hold him for the rest of their lives. But these nerves, these awful fluttering nerves.

No wonder she couldn't sleep last night.

No wonder she couldn't eat this morning.

Only a couple of steps left.

She swallows, and curls her fingers tight around the roses she carries, and now, now at last Erik turns, just slightly. Just enough for him to catch her eye. And even though he is not wearing his mask, even though he stands exposed before God, before the priest, before these people who are the closest in the world to them, he smiles, ever so slightly.

And Christine's heart soars, and she is there.


	10. Dance

_A few hours later._

* * *

He meant to take her dancing. So many times, he meant to take her dancing, just the two of them. To feel her in his arms, pressed to him, her head against his chest… He dreams of it, always. And he would hold her, ever so gently, and wish to spin the dance out forever…

The closest he came were the Opera balls. The ball at New Year's Eve that first year he knew her. He contemplated asking her to accompany him, especially after she gave him that staff paper, but it would not have been appropriate. A teacher, asking his student to accompany him? Never mind that they were friends. No, it would not do! He spent the evening in a whirl of composing, trying to banish the picture of her beauty from his mind.

The next year, the next year they w _ere_ together, albeit not very long. And she had accepted his invitation, and he was looking forward to it, could barely sleep for the thought of getting to hold her, and when he was up for three days composing and unsettled, Farhad dosed him with laudanum and put him to bed for the sake of his health. He awoke to a pounding headache, and a note from Christine that said she was suffering with "womanly problems" and was not up to attending with him. He took another dose of laudanum and fell into a drug-induced haze so deep Farhad very nearly sent for a doctor.

The next ball that comes, the next ball he'll spend the night in her arms, never leave them until it is time to go home, and take her in his arms in their bed. But it will not compare to tonight, to this, her nestled against him, her cheek pressed to his chest and eyes closed. Only hours ago she vowed herself his wife (his wife!) and even now his eyes get misty thinking of it. Surely it is a dream, that they are wed. It is too good to be true, but there is a gold band glinting on her finger, and a matching one on his own, and she is his wife, for all the world to see, and he is her husband, truly hers, now at last, and he closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent of her hair, and knows that they could spend their lives dancing, and it would never beat this.


	11. Reflections

_Erik's thoughts on their wedding night, and the morning after._

* * *

His wife. She is his wife. There is a wonder in the words, a majesty that makes his heart stutter. His wife. This beautiful, sweet creature lying here in his arms in his wife.

He hardly dared believe it when she first kissed him.

He hardly dared believe it when she confessed her love to him.

He hardly dared believe it when she consented to marry him.

He hardly dared believe it yesterday when she whispered the words "I do" and bound herself to him.

But she is his wife.

Tears prickle in his eyes with the tightness of the feelings in his heart. His wife. His forever, to love, and to hold, and to be held by. And he wept last night from sheer exhaustion, overwhelmed by the weight of all that they are, and she held him and stroked his hair and kissed him, and now she sleeps tucked in against him, perfectly peaceful, as if she has always belonged there. As if they have been moulded for each other.

He draws her closer tohim , and presses his lips to her forehead, and sighs. She snuffles slightly against him, her lips twitching so that she is almost smiling in her sleep, and his heart falters at the sight of it, of the sweetness of it, the innocence. Without a doubt she is the greatest thing that has ever happened to him, and he would be a lesser man without her, and sleep tugs heavy at his eyelids, reminding him of how exhausting the last few days have been, and as they slip closed all he can think is that surely, surely she is heaven sent.

* * *

He is not the man he was, not by any stretch of the imagination. He was an assassin, a murderer, an executioner as the occasion required. Chief torture master, and so many other things. And though he has not been that man in twenty years and more, the mark of it has lingered on him, lingered in him, twisting and reminding him that he could be again, if he needed to.

Since coming back to Paris to build an opera house, he has preferred peace.

If he were not a changed man, he would not have laid low during the siege and Commune.

Still, what he once was lingered, indelibly imprinted, very nearly a brand.

But then there was Christine, and with her-with her everything changed. She has absolved him of how he was, revived him and restored him and healed the broken parts of him that music alone could not salvage. And he lies in her arms a man reborn, as innocent as a babe, undefiled and untarnished and made whole again by her. He never dreamed that such a thing could be possible, but the very first moment she smiled at him in lesson and his heart fluttered, he knew he was saved.

Her fingers are gentle playing with his ear, her breath soft against his hair as she hums a little tune - one of his own, he thinks - and he knows she does not know, cannot ever quite know, all that she has done for him, but she has done so very much, and he nuzzles into her chest and knows that he never wants her to ever let him go.


	12. Cheiloproclitic

_Early in their marriage, he finds her very distracting_

* * *

She has wonderful lips, his Christine. Wonderful, full lips that make his heart stir when his eyes fall on them. He has never seen such beautiful lips. True, they are full but not as full as other women's, and there is a bow to her top lip that he could write poetry to. (He once wrote an aria to it, in a night of composing as she slept in their bed, and she blushed pink the first time he played it for her.)

It was her lips he noticed first. Well, truthfully it was her voice, but her voice came from those lips and so they naturally drew the eye. And he has been thankful ever since that he was there that day to hear that voice, because otherwise they would not be here now, would not have this. And on the closing night of the opera she first starred in, he had a mad impulse to kiss her, and it left him lightheaded because in all of fifty years he had never wanted to kiss a woman's lips before, and suddenly he did. It only lasted a moment, that impulse, but it came back to him, in quiet nights and still mornings hunched over his piano, and oh, how he puzzled over it.

The first time he kissed those lips he thought he might die.

Of course, he didn't. He did break down though under the weight of all of that emotion, and she held him and spoke softly to him, and kissed his forehead, and though he already knew he loved her, in that moment he knew that there was nowhere else in the world for him _but_ her arms.

She snuffles softly in her sleep, her fingers curling a little more around his, and he bows his head just enough that he can kiss her hair. His little wife, his lovely Christine. How wonderful she is, really, and how she fell in love with him, of all men, is a question he still sometimes struggles to get his head around, though she has worn his ring for years. But he does not question it tonight, not when her lips are so soft nuzzling into his throat as she sleeps. When she is in his arms like this, there can never be room left for questions.

* * *

It still surprises him, that he is permitted to think of her as being anything other than immaculately turned out, that he is allowed to see her in such a way. His wife, who lies beside him at night, and wraps her arms around his waist and holds him close. Even in his wildest dreams of considering their marriage he still could not quite bring himself to imagine that she might allow him to see her undressed, that they might be _intimate_ with each other.

Oh, he knows it is what other people do, other married couples. But they are different, have been different from the first moment he decided to teach her, and all through their courtship he steadfastly kept thoughts of such intimacy far from his mind. To be close to her, to be able to hold her… That is all he wanted, all he truly desired. To not have to say goodbye to her at the end of the night, and it was that very craving for closeness that led to his decision to propose marriage. Anything else, anything else is just extras.

Extras that wear him out, overwhelm him, if he is being honest. And if they overwhelm him, what must they do to her? She cannot be in a state of exhaustion, not when she needs to be on top form for performing, and hardly were they home from their honeymoon when he proposed to her that they should limit their, ah, _encounters_ , for the sake of the music.

(There is no telling how relieved he was when she agreed. At his age he does not have the stamina for that sort of prolonged activity. He very nearly dozed off on top of her on their fifth night! And while it was very enjoyable nonetheless, he has no wish to embarrass himself like that.)

Still, he can at least think of her. And think of her he does. It inspires his music, makes it flow freer from his fingertips when he thinks of her, pressing her warm body against his back, or brushing her lips against his, (and that thing she does with her tongue, that she confessed Sorelli advised her in (he ought to send a bouquet of appreciation to Sorelli)). And when he permits his mind to think of her in her costume, the dress pooling at her feet, and his own hands untying her corset for it to fall away and reveal her in her soft, pale glory, her breasts warm beneath his touch, her legs slender and elegant—When he permits himself to think of her thus, his throat runs dry, and he is grateful that his fingers know better than to stumble on the piano keys.

(He worked those feelings that she inspires into a piece, once. And the moment she heard it she forbade him from ever putting it into an opera, and took him to bed. He feared he would die beneath her lips that night, and the very memory of it is delicious.)

He will confess that he once wrote an act in an opera demanding that she wear men's attire, just so he could picture himself undressing her. And she knows this, and one night, while they were between performances, she came to him in a full suit, and the wonder of it was almost more than he could bear. His fingers will never forget how it felt to slide her coat off, to unbutton her waistcoat and her shirt, one button at a time, and the shudder that ran through him when he brushed the skin beneath—

No. He cannot let himself think of that now. Perhaps it would be best to have a bath, and then return to considering the opera at hand.

Christine catches his eye as he rises, and flashes a smile at him as if she knows what he has been thinking, and he can feel his ears burn pink beneath her gaze.


	13. Seduction

She comes to him in a thin negligée that leaves little to the imagination, the diamond necklace that he gave her for her birthday only a handful of weeks ago glittering around her throat. Her golden hair curled into loose waves, her lips painted soft pink, that negligée clinging to each curve of her soft body—his thoughts scatter at the very sight, heat simmering low in his belly.

She sits on the edge of their bed, and eases the book from his grasp, smiling slightly with a twinkle in her eye, and as her fingers lightly trace the curve of his cheek, he murmurs the first thought that makes itself clear in the buzzing of his brain.

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

Her hand burns through his nightshirt as she lays it softly against his chest, and as she presses her lips to the corner of his she breathes, "Maybe."

He swallows hard, and feels the soft swell of her breast against him, his heart lurching. "I think it might be working."

* * *

The very thought of moving is almost more than he can bear. To get up? And leave the comfortable heat of bed? Leave his dear, soft wife? Disgraceful! Almost blasphemous! They'll have to move sometime of course, but not so soon. If he could spend every moment tucked in safely against her he would, every moment of every day, and her hand light on his chest, her face nuzzled into his neck. It would be cruel of him to move and disturb her.

She sighs, her lips soft against his throats and he tightens his arms around her. "How long do we have?" Her voice is hoarse with sleep and it stirs his heart.

He shifts and reaches past her, lifts his watch from the bedside locker. "Half an hour," he whispers, and gently kisses her hair. "Then we need to move."

"Ugh. I don't want to go in today."

"I know." But they must. The premiere is tomorrow night. They still have preparations to put in place, it's critical that they go in.

"Why can't we just lie here forever?" She lifts her head and looks at him with bleary eyes, her hair a wild mess and his heart lurches at the sight of it. She is so beautiful, so beautiful even now, and tears prickle his eyes as he smiles at her.

"Because I composed an opera, and you are its star."

Her lips twitch though she tries to look annoyed. "Perhaps I ought to forbid you from composing if it's going to disturb us like this."

He can't help the chuckle that rises in his chest. "Perhaps I ought to forbid you from performing if it's going to disturb us like this."

"Darling." But she grins at him, and bows her head and kisses him. "Do we have time for this?" She nips his lip lightly. "Do you think?"

He swallows, and sighs. "I think we can make time for this."


	14. Capernoited

She is drunk, or possibly. The fact of her being lightheaded is not enough to go on, is never enough to go on with these things. She's often gotten altogether too lightheaded just from looking at Erik too long, studying his lips. Oh, his lips. They look as if they are not there at all, are so thin and delicate, but they are wonderful, beautiful! If she were a poet, she would write odes to those lips, sing them from the rooftops for everyone to hear! Let them all know the man she has married, his beauty, his grace, his gentleness! There is no one else in the world for her, and each time she looks at those lips, her head so empty and light, she remembers that, and her heart trembles to think that he is hers, only hers.

Her fingers brush his lips, ever so gentle, and he smiles, grasps hers fingers carefully and squeezes them. "I think, my love," he murmurs, his eyes soft, "that you may have had a little too much champagne."

He's wrong. Of course he's wrong, however lovely he looks behind his mask, and he is lovely, tonight, especially. Proud, and distinguished, and handsome, the most handsome man she has ever known whatever anyone else may say, and she raises herself on her tiptoes, and presses her lips softly to his. There was a time when she was shy to kiss him, to touch him. Shy to see him as a man she might love, but now...Now she is his, and he is hers, and this is how it has been for years, and the champagne makes her heart flutter, the way it always did in those days they were courting and before.

(The way it always does, even now, when she stops to consider him in those half-moments when he does not see her watching him.)

"I love you," she murmurs, and presses her lips against his again, those lips that she watched and loved for so long now, and they are as soft as they have ever been, as she has always thought them, and he chuckles against her, the vibrations in his chest stirring her heart. Her knees tremble, and he tightens his grip around her waist, steadies her.

"I love you, too," and he nips her lip, pulls back, the gold in his eyes shining bright enough that her heart aches to tighten her arms around him, to kiss his lips again and never stop, "but I do think, darling, that it is time we return home. You need to rest."

Silly man! It is not the champagne that made her tremble, but the thought of kissing him again, and kissing him always, and it crosses her mind to say that, but in one deft movement he scoops her into his arms, and cradles her head against his chest, and it matters not what she might protest, because however nice it is to kiss his lips, this is even nicer. Her eyes slip closed, and she leans into him, and sighs, and knows, as he brushes his lips against her forehead, that she would give anything in the world to never have to leave his arms again.


	15. Secrecy

_After several years of marriage, Christine becomes pregnant_

* * *

It is the soft shifting of lips against her throat that brings Christine to wakefulness. She is groggy with sleep, heavy with it, and for a moment she does not quite know what is happening, until she realises that it is Erik nuzzling her. He sighs, and whimpers, pressing his face closer into her neck, and in the stillness of the night Christine cannot help but smile.

Though it is dark, she can just make out the glow of his pale skin, and she inclines her head, very slightly, and her lips brush his forehead. "Erik," she murmurs, her voice hoarse, "are you awake, Erik?"

He does not answer, only sighs again, and she presses another kiss to his forehead. So he is asleep, fully asleep. That's good. He does not get nearly enough rest, no matter how she tells him that he needs to relax more. Though in the last few months, she will admit, he has gotten better at it.

His hand is warm on her stomach. She can feel it through her shift, the gentle weight of it, and she smiles to think that she has always loved his touch. Even in the early days of their courtship, and before, whenever his hand would accidentally brush against hers, be it on one of their walks in the Luxembourg or when he was handing her sheet music or roses, his touch would always send a thrill through her. He has such lovely hands. They are so delicate, so finely crafted, the bones thin and fingers long, but though they are delicate they are strong, more than able to steady her.

Those hands. She has kissed them so many times. Pressed her lips to the tips of each finger, kissed each knuckle, nuzzled into each palm, and her lips tingle at the memory so that she kisses the soft skin of his forehead again. So many kisses, and he deserves each one of them, and more. He deserves all of the kisses she could ever give him, should be kissed a hundred, a thousand!, times each day, each kiss an impression of her love left in his skin.

The fruit of his love for her is growing beneath her heart, though he does not know it yet. She will tell him soon, but for now it is her secret, hiding inside of her, a very precious little secret, and as she lays her hand on top of Erik's own, she sighs to think that it will not be so very long, only a few more months (seven, she thinks) until he is cradling a baby in his hands. Their own tiny baby.

Christine giggles into the darkness, and Erik sighs against her, his fingers twitching on her belly. A baby, think of that! A baby who will have Erik's eyes, and her nose, who will love music and will curl tiny fingers around one of hers, or one of Erik's, and cling on just for comfort, just to be close. And she will hold the baby close to her, and kiss his (or hers, it could be a little girl though part of Christine hopes for a son, even now) kiss his soft hair, and he will cuddle into her, the sound of her heart soothing him to sleep.

Tiredness is tugging heavy at her eyelids, and she lets them slip closed. With infinite gentleness, so as not to wake him, she twines her fingers with Erik's, and slowly raises his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it softly before laying it over her heart. "I love you," she breathes, pressing her lips one more time to his forehead. "I love you." And she sighs, his slow breaths bearing her back to the land of dreams.


	16. Sphallolalia

_After the baby_

* * *

Things had been going delightfully with her and Erik. They had been talking softly in their bed, dare she say, even flirting!, and sharing gentle kisses, and it looked like it might be a very lovely night indeed in his arms. He has been so gentle and careful with her since he heard she was expecting a child, and that has not ended though their son was born months ago. (Four months, to be precise. Four sweet months with their tiny baby boy.) And Erik has continued to be a perfect gentleman, seeing to her every need, and never once even suggesting that they might be intimate, always insisting that she rest and not overstrain herself.

She has wanted to be close to him in that way for the past couple of weeks, the old longing reawakened in her for to make love to her husband, and it was with those thoughts in mind that she began talking to him sweetly as she lay in his arms, and nuzzling his throat, and commenting on how very handsome he looks tonight. And as she lightly trailed her fingers up along his side while murmuring about how the gaslight was giving his eyes that very lovely glow, she could see his resolve beginning to weaken, and thought that this time, surely this time, she would get somewhere with him.

Then Fabian cried from the other room, and all hopes of marital intimacy were shattered.

Erik proposed that he would be the one to go to their son, to settle him back to sleep. But for all that he might have been getting ready to make love to her, Christine could see the tiredness lurking in his eyes, and decided that tonight she would be the one to take care of the baby. She left her husband with a kiss on the cheek, and a promise that she would return soon.

Fabian, as it turned out, was crying for no apparent reason at all. He did not want to be fed, did not want to be changed, was certainly not sick because his little forehead was the same temperature as always. He simply wanted to be held, to nestle close to her, because as soon as she cradled him to her chest he settled, but when she went to lay him back down in his crib his eyes started watering.

"You get that from your father, you know," she murmured, pressing one soft kiss to his forehead. "He likes cuddling too, very much so. But don't tell him I told you because he'll deny it." And she could not help giggling as she kissed her little boy again, because the very thought of talking to her son, not only as if he might understand her but as if he might be able to tell Erik what she told him, is ridiculous!

"We'll go visit Papa," she whispered, unable to suppress the smile twitching at her lips, "and then you'll go to sleep like a good little boy, all right?"

Fabian, of course, did not answer, but he did not close his eyes either, instead lay in her arms looking up at her as if she were something fascinating. Erik, she is certain, would agree with him on that point, too.

So she carried him, her little son, into the next room to see his father, only to find said father sound asleep, lying on his side with his hand resting on her pillow. She knew she told him to rest, but she did not expect him to fall asleep so quickly, and a knot of frustration twists in her gut. Of course, he'd be asleep when she'd return, _of course._ And she could hear Sorelli's voice in her mind quipping, _typical man really_.

Sighing, Christine settled on the edge of the bed, not taking any care at all to avoid waking Erik though he still slept on, his face slack. Fabian made a small noise that drew her to look back down at him, and he was asleep too, his little face tucked in against her breast. And all Christine could do was frown, and reiterate her earlier point to both sets of sleeping ears. "You get that from your father too."


	17. Preparations

_Four years later_

* * *

It is quite beyond Erik's grasp to understand how someone so tiny can talk so much. Quite beyond his grasp, but a true fact nonetheless. He knows he was not a talkative child - he can hardly be described as a talkative man for that matter - and if what Freyja has told him is anything to go by, then Christine was a quiet child too.

Fabian takes after neither of them in that regard.

"...and there was a little brown bird that hopped across the bench and he was tiny, Papa, and I wanted to pick him up and feel him but Uncle Far said I'd scare him and then the bird turned his head and he was looking at me, Papa! He was looking at me, and I was really still because I didn't want to scare him and he was very nice but then some other boys went running past and he flew away and..."

The tumble of words flow over Erik, and he smiles at his son sitting in his lap, nodding at him even as his fingers fish his watch from his pocket. The moment Fabian sees the watch he breaks off about the birds and reaches for it with his little hands, curling them around the chain.

"What time is it, Papa? Do you soon have to go?"

Erik nods, and consults his watch a moment before gently disentangling Fabian's fingers. "We will be going as soon as your Maman is ready. Now you'll be a good boy for Mamma Freyja, won't you? And go to bed when you're supposed to?"

Fabian nods, his hazel eyes wide. "Yes! And Mamma said she would read me a story about little birds! Will you dance with Maman?"

Erik cannot help his smile getting wider.

"I'll do nothing but dance with Maman." It's really the only reason he's going to the blasted gala - to dance with Christine. He's missed so many of them in the past that it wouldn't matter if he missed this one, but he always does his best to make them with Christine. She loves dancing at these things, and he must confess that with her they are not nearly so tedious. His heart flutters at the very thought of getting to hold her in his arms, cradling her close and kissing her hair and her arms warm around his waist and so help him but he won't leave her arms all night if he can help it.

Fabian is saying something, another rush of words that break off when the bedroom door creaks open and Erik looks up to see Freyja join he and Fabian, and a moment later, trailing behind her Christine.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight of his wife. She has not let him see this dress until tonight, hid it with Sorelli so that he would not stumble across it, and he is grateful now that she has. It is a shade of pale lilac, with slight traces of blue that draw out her eyes, and her golden hair is twisted into a chignon, simple and elegant and beautiful and all the words disappear from his mind so that he can only gape at her.

Her eyes meet his, and she smiles, and his heart falters a beat.

"Maman." Fabian's soft voice breaks the spell of the moment, and Erik gasps a breath, his little son launching himself off his lap and running at Christine. Christine chuckles and leans down and sweeps him into her arms, and Fabian's giggle fills the air. Tears prickle Erik's eyes and watching them, his wife and his son, Fabian chattering at Christine and Christine smiling back at him, and it's ridiculous to cry over such a thing but if he could he would capture this moment, and hold it forever.

"Erik." Freyja's voice is soft, and the divan shifts as she settles on it beside him, her eyes kind as she smiles at him. "What do you think?"

Out of the side of his eye he sees Christine watching him, and he nods and smiles at Freyja, and smiles at Christine, Fabian still chattering, and through the tightness in his throat he whispers, "It's beautiful."


	18. Gala

The best part of any gala is when the orchestra plays some of Erik's soft, romantic pieces. Because it is his night off, the substitute conductor is hard at work, and Christine is content to live in her husband's arms. They do not dance, not the same way that the other couples dance. Instead they hold each other close, and sway to the music, her head against his chest and his face buried in her hair.

This is how she prefers it, just the two of them. And no one else matters in the whole crowded ballroom. They could be at home in the parlour with the phonograph, and Fabian curled up on the divan, for all that anyone else matters.

Eight years. Eight years since she married Erik, and she would not trade a moment of the time they've had.

The music shifts, flows into a new piece. This one he wrote specifically for her, she knows. He wrote it for their engagement, to mark the occasion, and the first time he played it for her he remarked on all of the different strands of her that is in it - her voice, her smile, her touch, her kiss. The soft things she makes him feel. And it should be strange to listen to herself in the music, but when she listens to it she only hears him, his hands on the piano keys and the way he holds her close, and his breathy half-believing laugh when she kisses him, and how he breathes her name in the stillness of the night. He says it is for her, but she knows the truth. It is wholly made up of the pieces of him, and that is how it ought to be.

She draws back, slightly, and cups her hand around the nape of his neck, draws him down to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, uncovered by the mask.

"I love you," she murmurs beneath the music, so that only he can hear, and tears glow in his hazel eyes as she presses another kiss to his lips. "I love you." And eight years of marriage have not changed that a single bit.


	19. End

_Mere weeks later_

* * *

He does not feel her here, he _cannot_ feel her here. The drugs in his veins ensure that, but how she wishes they didn't. They are critical, the doctor said, essential to keep him comfortable (to keep him alive, at least for now.) He does not stir as she takes his hand, curls her fingers gently around it. His fingers are cold, colder than she is used to, and she presses them to her lips, breathes against them to warm them. He does not like cold fingers, never has. They interfere with his music, violin and piano both, make his knuckles cold, and if all she can do now to help him is kiss them, then she will.

She presses a soft kiss to the tip of his thumb, his index finger, middle finger, ring finger. More than eight years ago, she stood before an altar and slipped a ring onto that finger, and declared herself his wife. The ring shines up at her, a touch dulled by the years, but still beautiful, and a lump tightens in her throat. Over eight years, nearly nine if she, if she is being honest, and her heart throbs painfully to think that this might be it.

This might be all there is.

No. No. It can't be. She won't let it. She loves him too much, _needs_ him too much, her and little Fabian both. They need him so much. It can't…it can't end like this. It can't.

(It's his heart, the doctor said. His heart. That great, sweet heart that has loved her since the day they met. He did not feel quite well this morning, and he had a funny look on his face, kept rubbing his left arm and when she questioned it on him he smiled and said that he was a little overenthusiastic conducting last night, probably he pulled something and it's nothing to worry about. But then a little while later he went kind of grey, and sort of gasped her name, and she could only stare, frozen, as his eyes rolled and he crumpled to the floor.)

Her eyes sting with tears and she shuts them tight, unable to look at his cold, pale hand, his pallid face. He is her husband, her _husband_. He is supposed to be here for them always, by her side every moment, and he knows that, knows how much she loves him, and the words catch with her breath but she can't speak them, not even now watching him here. She should be able to tell him, to give him something to hold onto other than her warm hand cradling his limp one, but she can't. If she speaks a word she'll crack. Those tears will escape, roll in streams down her cheeks, and she can't cry over him, not yet. Not when he is _living_. He would not want that, has never wanted her to cry for him at all, not for his past, not those rare times he's been ill, never.

And he is living, still. He is. Each ragged breath that reaches her ears reminds her of that fact, and she hangs on them as if her own life were in the balance. If he could just open his eyes, just one moment…

They might be open already, watching her in his soft, careful way, and she does not know with her own eyes closed. Damn the tears! She needs to see him, needs to, that face she's kissed and touched so many times. She swallows, and takes a breath to brace herself, and opens her eyes.

And finds him still unconsc— _sleeping._ He is still sleeping. But that's good, isn't it? He needs his rest, the doctor said so. To regain his strength. No matter that the morphine is helping him. No matter how much she wants him to wake. It is better this way, better. And she nods as if she might be able to believe the words, as if she was whispering him to Fabian so he does not get upset over his Papa being ill.

But Fabian is not in here, cannot see Erik like this, now, and Farhad is with him, talking to him, telling him stories, as if his own mind were not in this room too. Perhaps it would be fairer if Farhad were in here as well, and Mamma. And Fabian, too. He will surely want to see his Papa, and if he gets upset—

If he gets upset she will hold him, and kiss his little forehead, and swear to him that there is no need to cry, that Papa is only resting to get well.

Only resting. Get well. She has heard those words before, too many times. And they have pounded a drumbeat through her brain, through her nightmares. They were lies then, lies with the Professor and lies with her own Papa, because neither of them ever _did_ get well, only faded away. But they cannot be lies now. Cannot be. She will. not. let. them. be.

She shakes her head to clear the thoughts away, and presses her lips again to Erik's knuckles. And she thinks, this time, he feels her, because his brow furrows, only slightly, and his fingers twitch. She curls her own fingers around them, and squeezes them, willing him to stir, willing his eyes to flutter. And they do, they open a crack, only for a moment, before slipping closed again, and relief blooms deep in her chest.


End file.
